Dracula The Un-Dead by Dacre Stoker & Ian Holt

Author:Dacre Stoker & Ian Holt
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Horror, Vampires, Occult & Supernatural, Fiction
ISBN: 9780451230515
Publisher: Penguin Group USA
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Quincey could feel Deane’s eyes upon him as he sat in the aisle seat of the first row. They had not exchanged a single word. Quincey was still looking at his hands on the stage, contemplating the ramifications of his rash actions. He had pushed too hard.

Footsteps stage left. It was judgment time.

Basarab emerged from the backstage shadows, holding a booklet under his arm. He looked downstage at Deane and said simply, “Fetch a doctor. I fear Mr. Stoker has suffered a stroke.”

It was not until Deane pounded up the steps to the stage that he was certain he had heard correctly.

“What are you waiting for? Fetch a doctor!” Deane shouted as he ran past Quincey. He shot Basarab a glare before disappearing backstage. The actor gave no reaction. Quincey turned to Basarab, and his mentor gave him a nod. Once again, he had his charge and he was off to carry out his orders. He leapt down to the house floor and started up the aisle. If Stoker died now, Quincey would never have the opportunity to question him about his book, his parents’ secrets, or Dracula. He had to move fast.

“Fools, fools!” Basarab’s baritone voice boomed from the stage. Quincey stopped and turned back to see Basarab, center stage, reading from the playbook.

“What devil or witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood flows in these veins?”

Quincey knew time was of the essence, but he found himself riveted. Basarab had become the character of Count Dracula. His voice was haunted and hollow, his Eastern European accent more pronounced. The regal elegance fell away from his posture. His entire body seemed almost wolflike as he stalked the stage. The transformation was so quick and remarkable that it was almost supernatural. It was a drastic contrast to John Barrymore’s farcical interpretation.

“But the warlike days are over,” Basarab growled. “Blood is too precious a thing in these years of dishonorable peace, and the glories of the great Dracula are no more than a tale that is told.”

Basarab stood downstage center; the footlights cast a chilling glow upon his face. In his eyes were centuries of torment. He was all blood and rage.

No longer reading from the book, but reciting as if from memory, Basarab allowed it to slip from his fingers. The angry wolf transformed again. Tears welled in his haunted eyes, his muscles strained and his head arched into the spotlight. So much pain. So much despair. Quincey stood in awe, frozen. Basarab continued to speak as if the lines were born in the depths of his own soul.

“Time has finally caught me,” Basarab said, his eyes staring directly at Quincey, burning into his flesh. “There is no place in this age of machines and politicians and intellect for monsters roaming the countryside. Choose to evolve, or choose to die.”

Quincey felt as if his feet were bolted to the ground. Basarab had transformed Dracula into a tragic hero, and in some distress, Quincey thought that if Basarab could so

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